Churchill's Angels Part 32

What should she say? Did she want friendship or, could it possibly be that she wanted more? 'Can you tell me where you're going?'

'Of course, tomorrow early, I return to my squadron and where I go from there depends very much on the enemy.'

'No more flying into occupied territory to pick up "special cargo"?'

'Daisy, you, better than anyone, know that I will do whatever I am asked to do.'

'I know, and, Tomas ...' Should she say it? Was it too soon? '... I love you for it.'

He threw his cap in the air and hugged her tightly against his chest. The night air was freezing cold but Daisy felt that she would never, could never, be cold again.

They were at the door of her billet and again stood silently, looking into each other's eyes, asking and answering questions without a word being spoken.

He bent and kissed her very gently on the lips. 'Good night, my little love. I will see you as often as I can.'

'Be well, Tomas Sapenak.'

Daisy wrote letters when she returned from her delivery the next evening. The first one was to Tomas. It was very simple.

My darling Tomas, Guess what. Tomorrow they're going to let me fly a Spitfire. I wish you were here to see it but, of course, I remember that you said that I was in your heart as you are in mine. Ergo, as our dear Adair would say, you will see me.

Love, Your Daisy.

Read on for an exclusive extract from Grace's story, Wave Me Goodbye. The next compelling book to feature Churchill's Angels ....

Late February 1940.

She had been right to do it, to pack up her few personal belongings and go without a word to anyone, even to those who had been so kind to her for many years. She regretted that. Not the kindness, of course, but the manner of her leaving. How could she explain to them that she could no longer bear her present existence; the hostility of her own sister, the uncomfortable, unwelcoming damp little house that she and, she supposed, Megan, called home? Even her job in the office of the Munitions' factory was unfulfilling. The only thing brightening her life had been the friendship of the Brewer and Petrie families, the small garden that she and her friends had created, and daydreams of Sam Petrie. Winter frosts had killed the garden that had given her such pleasure but Sam, like too many others, had gone bravely to battle and had not returned. As far as she knew Sam was a prisoner of war somewhere in Europe. She tried to picture Europe; surely in school she must have seen a map, but all she could visualise was a huge land ma.s.s somewhere across the English Channel. Useless to dream of him, not because he was missing Sam would return, he had to return but because he loved Sally Brewer.

It was easy to picture Sally, with her long black hair and her glorious blue eyes. Sally, an aspiring actress, was almost as tall as any one of the three Petrie sons, and a perfect foil for Sam's Nordic blondness. How could she, plain Grace Paterson who did not even know who her parents were, be attractive to a man like Sam? Oh, he had been kind to her when she was a child but Sam, oldest of a large family, had been kind to everyone. What would he think of her when he heard some day that she had disappeared without a word?

Grace sobbed, burying her face in her pillow in case any of the other girls were to come in and hear her. Her conscience, however, kept p.r.i.c.king her and eventually she found that intolerable. 'You have to write, Grace, you owe them that much.'

She got up, straightened the grey woollen blanket and thumped her fat pillow into shape. 'Right, I'm not going to lie here whimpering. I will write to everyone and then, when it's off my mind, I'm going to try to be the best Land Girl in the whole of the Land Army.'

She picked up the notebook she had bought in nearby Sevenoaks, and moved down the room between the long rows of iron bedsteads, each with its warm grey blankets, and here and there an old, much-loved toy brought from home for comfort. She reached the desk where, for once, no other girl was sitting and examined the lined jotter pages. Immediately Grace worried that she ought to have spent a little of her hard-earned money on buying proper writing paper. She shook her head and promised herself that she would do just that when her four weeks of training were completed and she had moved on to a working farm.

'Mrs Petrie and Mrs Brewer won't mind,' she told herself.

When had she first met them? More than half a lifetime ago but, since she was not yet twenty, half a lifetime wasn't long. Grace sighed. Ten, eleven Christmases spent at her friend, Sally Brewer's home, ten birthdays either with the Brewers or with the Petries. But when she thought of the Petrie family, it was not kind, comfortable Mrs Petrie or even her school friends, the twins, Rose and Daisy, who immediately came to vivid life in her mind but Sam, the eldest son who, for all she knew, might be dead.

No, he could not be dead. G.o.d would not be so cruel. She closed her eyes and immediately saw him, tall, blond, blue-eyed Sam, chasing the bullies who had pushed her down in the playground. He had picked her up, dusted her down and handed her over to the twins.

So many kindnesses and she had repaid them by slinking away, like a cat in the night, without a word of explanation or thanks. Again Grace turned her attention to the notebook and began to write.

Dear Mrs Petrie, I've joined the Women's Land Army and I'm learning all about cows.

That unpromising beginning was torn up. She started again.

Dear Mrs Petrie, I am very sorry for not telling you that I applied to join The Women's Land Army. It was working in the garden, growing the sprouts and things. It's hard to explain but, although it was really hard work, I enjoyed it. I felt ...

She could not explain the pleasure or the satisfaction that growing things had given her and so that effort, too, ended in the wastebasket. She tried to write to Mrs Brewer and four attempts ended beside the others. Grace stared in despair at the wall in front of her.

'Still awake? Want some cocoa? We're making it in the kitchen and they've left us some scones with b.u.t.ter. Amazing how we're able to squeeze more food in at bedtime just a few hours after a three-course tea.'

One of Grace's roommates, Olive Turner, was standing in the doorway and the appetising smell of a freshly baked, and therefore hot scone wafted across the room.

Grace rose in some relief. 'It's hard work and fresh air does it,' she said. 'That smells heavenly.'

'And it's mine.' Olive laughed, and together the girls ran down the three flights of uncarpeted stairs to the kitchen where several of the other girls were crowded round the long wooden table. A plate, piled high with scones and several little pots, were cl.u.s.tered together in the centre of the table. Each pot was marked with a land girl's name and they were filled either with her own rationed pat of b.u.t.ter or raspberry jam.

'Home sweet home,' said Olive as she and Grace found empty chairs.

'My home was never like this,' said another girl, Betty Goode, as she bit into her scone.

The others laughed and Grace smiled but said nothing and the trainee land girls drank their hot cocoa and ate scones filled with farm b.u.t.ter and jam until their supervisor came in to remind them that cows would be waiting to be milked at five o'clock next morning. Groaning, the girls finished their supper, washed up, and made their way back upstairs to bed.

Acknowledgements.

This book could not have been written without the help and support of many people.

Firstly my agent, Teresa Chris, who not only has always had faith in me but also has the ability to make me believe in myself.

All I knew about Dartford when I started my research was that it was on the flight path of the German bombers during WWII. I went to Dartford to find out for myself.

Thank you to all the lovely helpful people of Dartford who answered all my questions. I would like to thank all the librarians and historians in the central library who found books, maps, memoirs, letters, newspaper articles, films and who patiently explained all the things I did not understand. Very special thanks are due to the archivist, Dr Mike Still, who took me round the town and patiently showed me interesting places, nooks and crannies that I would never have found without him and who has since continued to send me snippets when he finds something that might be (and always is) of interest to a writer.

Personnel at Leuchar's Air Force base were friendly and helpful and set me on the right path! Thank you.

Enormous thanks and admiration are due too to the staff of the National Flight Museum on the East Fortune airfield near Edinburgh. The staff in the bookshop made browsing and buying an absolute delight, but most of all I would like to thank Duncan Johnston, Peter Moulin and Alistair n.o.ble who patiently answered all my questions about aircraft, flying, and learning to fly. Like all knowledgeable enthusiasts, they told me so many things that I didn't know I needed to know but which have proved invaluable.

Michael Hilton generously shared his knowledge of Wilmslow and I would ask him to thank 'Alec' whose maps made it so easy for me to design my own airfields. Thank you both.

I am so grateful to Dr Andrea Tanner, archivist at Fortnum and Mason, who kindly shared her knowledge concerning the availability of supplies of honey, both home and imported during WW11 and even gave me accurate prices.

And, of course, without Ian and his scrambled eggs, this book would never have been finished.

About the Author.

Ruby Jackson and her husband live in a small village in Surrey. Ruby, who worked for an international charity, now writes full time, with a particular interest in how women cope under pressure. When she's not writing she is probably in their large garden coping with weeds.

end.